Cave of Little Faces. Aída Besançon Spencer
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then,” pursued Nilka, “why not retire it? Let the other letters do their work. It would be so much more easy to read. When someone does not do their share, we let them go. It is not like in some countries where the más viejos—the oldest of the old—have no pension and must work on and on when they no longer can serve. Why must c remain on the job—on the page?”
Jo looked down at her teacher’s guide. No help there. “I don’t know, Nilka,” she confessed. “We are kind of stuck with c. It is—well, it is . . . like a—ummm—chameleon. It changes color, depending on its surroundings. When it is—well, say, on the beach in Puerto Rico with the soft trade winds blowing, relaxing with its fun friends like the i and the e, then it is soft and relaxed, like it was ‘sipping cider’—you see?—c-i-d-e-r—cider. But, if it’s in downtown Santo Domingo, struggling next to tough vowels like a and i, like being stuck in traffic on a street like Avenida Bolivar, with truck drivers pounding on their horns, taxi drivers banging up on the sidewalks, passing each other at the risk of everyone’s life and limb, buses shouldering everyone else out, while motorcycles zip everywhere like so many mosquitos, and then! Then! The fruit truck in front of you suddenly stops and the driver squeezes out and blocks the street, and every horn goes berserk. I mean, crazy—loco! Then the c is hard and tough, like a k sound in cane or clutch.”
“Ahhh,” said the whole class, shaking their heads in agreement, “like a chameleon.”
“It is ever hiding, ever changing,” pursued Jo. “But you can see the clues in the company it keeps: soft like an s with i and e, hard like a k with a and o and the consonants.”
Gratified, Jo watched her class of seven dutifully scratch that mystifying information into their notebooks.
Josefina Archer, known to all and sundry as Jo, was 29 years old, a former community organizer before she received God’s call to help poor people become something even greater than simply middle class. As in everything she did, she had pursued her early career change with diligence and, after seminary training in Boston both in Spanish and English at the Center for Urban Ministerial Education, she returned to her home town of Richfield, New Jersey, called to pastor a small new Spanish church development at David Brainerd Presbyterian Church of Richfield, or “David B,” as the parishioners called it.
Coming back to Richfield after three years away had been quite interesting. Everyone in the Spanish community still regarded Jo as their community organizer, even though they kept correcting themselves to call her Reverenda now, but Jo didn’t mind, because she found that working in such a helping dimension to her ministry was natural for her. The literacy and second language learning center at David B was a natural gift to Richfield’s Hispanic community—an extension of what she had developed when she was still Richfield’s Hispanic community organizer. But, now, instead of being in charge, she was just the director of one of its centers. The search for a new organizer was still grinding along, but she treated the interim director of the Hispanic office, a younger woman from Costa Rica, with deference and support. With Jo’s center, another on Second Street in a small mission there run by a charismatic and beloved Mexican minister named Mercedes Del Rio, another at the local Richfield State College, another in Richfield State Penitentiary, and a few others at notable places, this program was thriving.
Here at David B, Jo had recruited the clergy couple who pastored the English congregation, Pastors Ron and Toni Bright, to help her. She also attracted an interested parishioner of the Brights—one Lawrence Fennelman, who Jo feared was more interested in her than in the program—and to her delight, her own dad, James Archer, who was semiretired and had a wonderful touch with the students. She had also enlisted her stepmom, Lea, who was always willing to try anything, but she was so brusque and quick to closure that everybody got discouraged. Easy does it works with adult learners.
Well, obviously, c was plenty to chew on and ingest for one night, so Jo decided to pause there and see how this had sunk in. “Okay,” she swept the room with a challenging glance, “so how sharp do you think you are? Think you can handle a few drills?”
“I think I got it,” announced Nilka.
“I don’t know if I got it,” warned Nilka’s mom, who always knitted through the entire session.
“I think she got it,” chuckled Raul, making the traditional Hispanic gesture of pursing both lips and pointing them in Nilka’s direction.
“All right, then, let’s see,” said Jo. “C-i-t-y”—what is it?”
“Kitty,” said Nilka’s mom hopefully—like downtown Santo Domingo, hhaarrdd!”
“No, Mama,” said Nilka. “It is soft—it is with the i—the iiiiii! You see?” Mama obviously didn’t see.
Oh, oh, thought Jo, my illustration overpowered my content—teaching is impossible! “Look, forget, the example,” said Jo quickly to the six other puzzled faces confronting her. “Just go with the vowels—hard vowels, soft vowels. Just like Nilka said.”
“Bowels?” said Nilka’s mother.
“I think we’ve had enough for tonight,” groaned Jo. “We’ll pick this up again next week. Oh, and you’re all doing so well,” she added swiftly. “Don’t worry about getting this, right off the bat. It’s hard for everybody. But, you’re all doing just fine. Just fine! We’ll keep at it until everybody’s got it.”
“Thank you, Profesora Josefina,” said Nilka, and everybody joined in. Nilka’s mother gathered up her knitting and off they all went as Jo sat back in her chair and puffed out a great sigh.
“How’s it going, JoJo?” asked her dad, leaning into the room. “All done for the night?”
“Yes, and done in by the elusive c.”
Dad chuckled. “Sure, wait until you get them to the sounds without symbols. How they ever got a th (he blew a sharp blast of air under his tongue as he rested it on his bottom teeth) out of a ta (another blast at the tongue’s tip behind his top teeth) and a haaaa I’ll never know. Something to look forward to. . . .”
Jo groaned. “It was a lot easier back when I was setting up these classes than now when I have to teach them!”
“Yes, that’s always the way. But you’re so industrious, you’ll keep on plugging.”
Jo groaned again. “Yeah, that’s what’s worrying me.”
Dad laughed, “Okay, honey, I’m off.”
Jo got up, went over and hugged her father. “Thank you, Dad, so much for helping out. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re so busy—this is so sweet of you.”
“Honey, there’s nothing more important to me than you and your brother and sisters. In whatever and whenever you need me, you know I’m there for you.”
“I know, Dad. And I’m here for you too.”
“Yes, Jo, you are—you’re always there for everybody.”
“Hmmummm,” cleared a throat at the door. “Miss Archer, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Mr. Fennelman. How is that student you are tutoring coming along?”
“Slowly, slowly,” said Lawrence, tousling his few front strands of hair and sidling up next to Jo.
“I’ll see you later,” winked Dad, starting for the door.
“Just a second, Dad,” cried Jo in desperation, “You’ve been teaching for so long, I think you can help us with this question.”
Lawrence frowned, as Jo dragged her father back into the room. “Well,” said James Archer, eyeing his daughter with a “Thanks a lot!” look. “So, what seems to be the trouble, Lawrence?”
Lawrence fumbled around for something to say, as Jo shuffled up the papers on her desk—now, if she could just make her escape, while Dad had him occupied. A furtive glance, a stealthy stealing along the wall, and